


Of Locked Cars and Spaghetti Dinners

by TallDarkandNerdy



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, And Kuroko is the irritated but caring friend, Kasamatsu is an unreasonably attractive locksmith, Kise is terrible with cars, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6389431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TallDarkandNerdy/pseuds/TallDarkandNerdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his multitude of skills and talents, there were two things Kise was sure he couldn’t handle: car problems and irresistible locksmiths. So when he got himself locked out of his car, It was safe to say that this was not Kise’s night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Locked Cars and Spaghetti Dinners

**Author's Note:**

> So this whole fic was based on [this post](http://today-ifuckedup.tumblr.com/post/125364959120/today-i-fucked-up-by-calling-a-locksmith-when) and was only meant to be about a thousand words, but somehow the idea of a hopelessly pining Kise as too good to resist and it ended up being five times longer than I promised myself. What can I say, tropes like that are my weakness.

“Okay folks, that’s a wrap,” the director called out once the too-long photo shoot came to a close. Camera crew and models sighed simultaneously, all of them exhausted and ready for the trip home. 

A small, middle-aged woman shuffled to one of the fatigued models and handed him a water bottle. “Good job today, Ryouta-kun,” she congratulated.

“Thanks Amicchi!” He yawned between swigs of water, and followed her pace as she led him back to the dressing rooms. “That lasted a little longer that I expected.”

“Yes, you can thank the assistant director for that,” she muttered, irritation laced in her tone. She had her eyes glued to her planner, stylus swiping across the screen to make adjustments. “We’ve had to shift your dinner meeting to tomorrow evening since you’ve run late here, so cancel any scheduled plans you have.”

“Oh come on.” Kise slumped at the news and trudged through his dressing room door, but turned around and asked hopefully, “Could we have the dinner party at my place? It’ll have a more personal flavor to it!” It wasn’t as though he hated going out to dine at lavish restaurants, but he really planned a personal “me” day for the following night and wanted to at least be in the comfort of his own home. And it was well decorated—what better place to have a small, casual dinner date with two PR managers?

Apparently, his manager thought otherwise. “I’ve seen what your place looks like when you haven’t had it cleaned,” she scolded. “I’m not risking two potentially important clients stumbling across a pair of your teddy-bear-print boxers by accident.”

“That was one time!”

“One time’s more than enough to be suspicious.”

He pouted, but knew that his puppy-dog expression had long failed to get what he wanted out of his manager. “You’re cruel,” he whined. “…what time do I have to be there?”

“Seven, at L’Amour Belle. I’ll call you half an hour prior to make sure you won’t run late.”

As tough as she was, Kise could at least appreciate her devotion. Even as he trudged out to the parking lot with a list of dining dos-and-don’ts Ami written up for him to prepare him, he wouldn’t have asked for anyone else to make sure he doesn’t get made a fool of by the media sharks.

Nothing was more gratifying, though, than the sight of his beautiful car. Everything about just screamed the promises of  _home. Peace. Leftover takeout and romance drama re-runs._ He jogged across the lot, relishing in the thought of driving back to his cozy downtown apartment, and pulled out his car keys. “Soon,” he whined to himself as images of himself planted on his sofa persisted, and eagerly pressed the  _unlock_  button of his key fob.

He paused when his car didn’t respond. “Eh?” He pressed the button again.

And again.

And  _again._

“No.” He squeezed his thumb against the fob, pushing against it with an increasing desperation, and used his other hand to tug the door handle. Locked. “Noooo. Come on, baby, please…” He tugged again, halfheartedly this time, but rested his head against the top of the door. He could’ve been home by now, warming up a huge bowl of onion gratin soup and catching up on Misaki’s love life with her hunky yet shameless coworker in a three-hour marathon. 

As he slumped against the door, Kise tried to list several alternate options on what to do. Take a cab? No—he never carried cash with him on photo shoots, and he doubted that any driver would appreciate tending to someone who they didn’t know nor trust. Walk home? No—it was far too chilly now to make the trip home, even if it was only ten or eleven blocks. He couldn’t risk Ami’s wrath if he got sick and—

Wait: Ami!

He quickly pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until his manager’s number popped up. He tapped his foot impatiently while the line rang once, twice, three times.

“ _Hello—”_

“Amicchi, it’s Kise! I got locked—“

“ _You have reached the number of Satori Ami. I cannot come to my phone right now, so please leave a message if you are interested in—”_

_Click_. He stared down at the phone, glaring at the “Call Ended” screen as if that would somehow gravitate Ami to check her cellphone. He gave up, though, and slumped against the car again. “What to do,” he asked himself, and crossed his arms in an attempt to bottle down his growing panic. “I can’t walk home, Ami’s not answering…” He glanced down at his cellphone, and scrolled through his contacts list. He’ll just have to call the person he trusted the most when it came to getting out of bad situations.

The phone rang only once this time, before someone picked up. “Kise-kun.”

“Kurokocchi!” he cried, relief flooding his senses. “Kurokocchi, you have to help me! I’m locked out of my car and I can’t get home!”

There was a long, tired sigh. “Kise-kun, I’m very busy right now. Could you call someone else?”

“Oh.” He glanced down at his feet, suddenly feeling sheepish. Of  _course_  Kuroko would be busy, with his work as a schoolteacher. He was probably elbow-deep in macaroni-drawings and spelling tests in need of grading. “I’m sorry, I’ll just…” he halted, and listened to the background noise. “Is that Mario Kart?”

“Yes. I’m very busy kicking Kagami-kun’s butt.” He could hear the indignant squawks and curses of said redhead—by the sounds of it, he really wasn’t doing well.

“Kurokocchi,” he whined more insistently, “you’d really choose a video game over me? Kise? Your best friend?”

“Kagami-kun is my best friend.” A best friend he had no trouble backstabbing when it came to racing or blue shells, apparently.

Kise pouted. “So cruel, Kurokocchi.”

There was a sigh, and a moment later the sounds from the television clicked off. “I don’t see how I’d be able to help you, even if I weren’t busy. Neither Kagami-kun nor I have a car.”

Kise deflated a little. “Right, you guys walk to work.” He scratched the back of his head and groaned, “I’m just so desperate! It’s cold, and windy, and everyone’s left already!”

He could visualize the look on Kuroko’s face: blank, but with a hint of irritation (or, hopefully, worry) from Kise’s wallowing. “If all else fails, try a locksmith.”

“A locksmith?” A locksmith! Why didn’t he think of that? He felt himself begin to grin, relief once again assuaging him. “A locksmith! Kurokocchi, you're amazing!” He hung up before he could hear the quiet wish of good luck or the irritated mumbling of “ _Why the hell do you get to be Toad again?”_  in order to search for the closest available shop. 

He scanned through his phone’s search results, ignoring any service that was more than ten minutes away or had poor reviews, until his eyes landed on  _Kasamatsu and Sons Locksmiths_. Open late and only a few blocks away?  _Sold._

* * *

By the time a beat-up blue pick-up truck rumbled into the studio’s driveway, Kise was sure that he was about to die of boredom. He checked his watch and frowned—it had been twenty minutes since he first called the shop.  _We’ll send a locksmith out right away_ , they said.  _He’ll be there soon_ , they said.

Now Kise might’ve been a model, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that the time it took for this bozo-in-blue to show up was much longer than “soon.” In fact, he was sure that their description of being “local” was just a front in order to trap poor, needy customers into thinking that they’ll get service quickly. They were lies, nothing but horrible lies.

He hopped off the hood of his car when the truck parked and the driver’s door opened. “Finally,” he complained, preparing his bitch mode should the serviceman try to give him trouble. “Do you have any  _idea_  how long I—” The rest of the sentence died in this throat when the door closed and sharp blue eyes stared back at him. He snapped his mouth shut, eyes involuntarily trailing over the man’s scruffy hairline and the lean curve of his neck that was barely concealed by his too-loose shirt collar and dipped down into—

The man cleared his throat and ambled over, seemingly oblivious to the model’s blatant staring. “Sorry for the inconvenience. I had to take a detour for a traffic accident.”

“No trouble at all,” he laughed, voice cracking for the first time since his awkward adolescent years in high school. He winced at the sound of it, but covered it with a charming smile and leaned his hand against the hood. “It’s been nice getting to sit outside, out in the open,” he started. “The whole great outdoors. I don’t think people appreciate it enough, y’know?”

“Right.” He shuffled past him without a second glance, and examined the driver’s door. With a hum, he set his tool kit down and rummaged through its contents.

Kise’s smile fell from the blunt rebuff, but he straightened up and shrugged. “Thanks for the help. This is the first time something like this has happened.” He fiddled with his car keys while he waited in an attempt to distract himself, but he couldn’t help but give him another quick peek. The nametag stitched to his work shirt was labeled “Yukio.”

_Yukio._

Yukio was a handsome man, Kise mused. He couldn’t have been that much older than him, even if he had wrinkles developing between his eyebrows and a perpetual frown that tugged the ends of his plump lips down. Maybe that was the side effect of a long day picking locks? That had to be a tough job, right? Having to run around everyday, using those firm biceps to unlock a car door or change a household lock; anyone would look exhausted after that. Maybe he’d even have to work in the hot sun all day until his creamy skin shimmered with sweat and cologne, and droplets of moisture would cascade down his bare chest and soak into the waistband of his tight jean shorts—

Kise squeaked when he realized Yukio was talking to him and squeezed his keys until they left red indents into his palm.  _Now’s not the time to fantasize, Ryouta._

If his perverse ogling or the guilty flush of his cheeks were that obvious, Yukio never brought it up. “No problem. Everyone locks their keys in their car once in a while,” he replied easily, and glanced over to give him a small smile.

Kise blinked. “No, I have my keys.”

He paused. “You do?”

“Yeah, my control fob’s dead.”

The handsome locksmith stared at Kise as if he had two heads and glanced down at his hands. Without saying a word, he closed the lid of his toolbox and walked towards him. Kise took an automatic step back and bumped the back of his knees against the car. “W-what are you doing?“ he tried to stammer, but it was hard to do anything but stare as Yukio stepped right into his personal space and linked his fingers with his.

Kise swallowed. This didn’t happen in real life. Buff repairmen didn’t just walk into your world and suddenly flip your barren romantic life into an oasis of passion and promises of long-term commitment—or at least include a steamy make-out session against the top of your car. But from the way Yukio’s fingers brushed against the palm of his hand in a way that was too soft for a handshake, it looked like fate was making an exception for down-on-his-luck Kise Ryouta by giving him a finely sculpted piece of luck.

Just as Kise was about to tear the buttons off Yukio’s cheap blue work shirt, the other pulled away in a cruel twist of fate with the blonde’s car keys in hand. He reached around Kise and stuck it into the door’s keyhole, turning it until there was a familiar  _click._

Kise stared at the unlocked door over his shoulder, and swallowed. “…Oh,” he whispered, too painfully mortified to say anything else.

Kasamatsu placed the keys back in his limp hand and stepped away. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” His voice shook, as though he were trying to contain laughter, and served as an extra figurative kick to the blonde’s manhood.

_Kill me. Spare me from crippling embarrassment._ “N-no, that’s it.” He clutched the keys, and stuffed his hand into his pocket. “Thank you, mister…” he trailed, pretending that he  _didn’t_ check out his nametag and will probably dream of  _Yukio_ for the next month.

“Kasamatsu Yukio,” he replied, sounding more composed now that he wasn’t on the verge of laughing at Kise’s blunder. 

“Rise Kyouta,” he blurted out in response, but shook his head and sputtered. “I mean, Kise Ryouta! That’s my name!”

Yukio snorted. “I know it is; your face is plastered around almost every subway car.” 

Before Kise could stop himself he asked, “Like what you saw?” Damn it.

The locksmith froze. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he laughed, but even he could hear how much force was put into it. There went any chances of outdoor make-outs. “Models often ask that to get some constructive criticism! We need to make sure the public likes our work; we can’t have it looking unattractive!”

Yuki gave him a cautious once-over, but shrugged as though the response was decent enough. He reached down to pick up his toolbox, then nodded his head in farewell and made his trek back to his truck. “Give us a car if your car gives you more trouble. Have a good night.”

“You too,” he started, but called out quickly after the retreating back, “Hey! What about payment?”

“No charge,” Yukio stated, and waved his hand over his shoulder without turning around. “The story I have’s priceless.” He stopped when he reached the driver’s side, and gave Kise another small smile before hopping in and starting his truck.

Kise watched Yukio drive away, even when he pulled out of the parking lot and disappeared among the midst of traffic, before he looked back down at his keys. So far his night consisted of getting locked out of his car, waiting an unreasonable amount of time for service, and acting like the biggest asshole in the world for forgetting that he could manually unlock his front door. But somehow, the cute smile and rippling muscles of the handsome locksmith almost made his total embarrassment worth it.

He squeezed his key fob out of habit, and jumped when the car’s alarm went off with a high-pitch screech.

* * *

“It’s not fair, Kurokocchi,” he whined. He slumped in his seat, glad that no one else in the fast-food joint was close enough to hear them. He looked down at the Maji Special he ordered, complete with a deluxe burger and a cookie crumble shake—Ami would’ve had an aneurism if she knew he ordered food that was definitely off his model-friendly, grease-free diet. He only poked at his fries, the rest left untouched. 

Even if he were hungry, the way the week had gone since  _the incident_  (he doesn’t know what else to call it at this point) would have dampened his appetite. There hadn’t been a moment between takes at a photo-shoot or chats with a group of eager fans when he wasn’t reminded of Kasamatsu Yukio. It was always something obscure, like a flash of dark hair or a glance at the studio’s utility men in dark blue overalls, that would trigger the flashbacks and turn him into a bright red mess.

It even affected his latest dinner meeting with PR agents of a prominent advertising company. He knew how important it was for his career and for Ami’s reputation, but the moment one of them introduced themselves as  _Yukio_ , he was gone. Goodbye, keeping up with important conversations about his work. Hello, accidentally mistaking Parmesan cheese for sugar when their coffees arrived. If it weren’t for the fact that both PRs assumed models were regularly this airheaded, he would’ve ruined a perfect contract deal. 

Frankly, he was tired of acting like a teenage girl.

Kuroko sat across the table, and took a sip of his shake. “Love isn’t always fair,” the shorter male said.

“It’s not love, though!” He stuffed a fry into his mouth and waited until he swallowed to speak again. “You don’t fall in love with someone you only met once!”

Kuroko shrugged. “Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”

“…What?”

“It’s from a poem.”

Kise stared. Kuroko sighed. “It’s also a line from Shakespeare.”

“Ooh! Is it from the one where everyone dies?”

“No. But nice try, Kise-kun.” Kuroko took one of Kise’s fries from his plate, and chewed on it thoughtfully. “It means that love at first sight is a possible and beautiful gift. If you really care about this handsome locksmith, you shouldn’t ignore him.

“If you like him that much, you could ask him out.”

Kise gasped. “I can’t do that! I only met him once—he’ll think I’m a creep if I do something like that!”

Kuroko stirred the contents of his cup with his straw. “Then get to know him before you do. Talk to him.”

“Talk to him…” He rubbed his chin, but frowned. “How can I start that naturally, though?” As charming and engaging as Kise was, he never had to initiate many conversations or romantic banters before. It was usually a brazen fan or flirty model he’d be working with who would start it, and he would simply react and follow along. But to actually start it…? “I dunno, Kurokocchi…”

“What are you so scared of?” Kise’s eyes flashed over to Kagami, who was previously quiet from the task of stuffing his cheeks with food like a giant squirrel. He swallowed the remainder of his burger and pointed a finger at him. “The worst that could happen is he dumps you. Big deal. If people were too scared of being dumped, no one would be together!”

Kuroko nodded. “That’s true. Kagami-kun nearly threw up when he asked me out, but he succeeded.”

Kagami turned bright red, and glared at his partner. “That was the second time I asked you, because you  _rejected_ me the first time.”

“It wasn’t a rejection, it was a rain check.”

“ _Who the fuck gives a rain check on becoming someone’s boyfriend?!_ ”

“Someone who didn’t need to be distracted a year before they graduated university by a roommate with the body of a God.” Kuroko’s eyes trailed down Kagami’s forearm in such a shameless way that even Kise was impressed.

Kagami choked and wrapped his arms around himself self-consciously, but cleared his throat. “Anyway, Kise, you’re not going to get anywhere doing nothing. Just find a way to get to know him. Hell,” he laughed, “you could break a few locks just to get the ball rolling.”

Kise blinked, but smiled and sat up in his seat. “Locks, huh,” he murmured, cogs beginning to turn at the possibilities. He leapt out of his chair and straightened his clothing. “I have to go, but thanks Kagamicchi!”

“Wait, I was kidding—Kise, wait!” He watched in horror as the blonde skipped out of the restaurant, and groaned. “Idiot.”

Kuroko nodded in agreement. “Don’t worry, Kagami-kun,” he reassured him, and took the rest of Kise’s fries. “It’ll all work out.”

* * *

It took three rings before someone picked up. “Kasamatsu and Sons’ Locksmith Service. How may I help you?” The voice was a dainty female who sounded like she could go an entire day without coffee. Kise almost envied her.

“Hi, I’d like to get my front door’s lock changed?” Kise asked, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “When is the soonest someone can come and install a new one?”

“Well, let’s see.” There was a shuffle of papers, most likely sorting through the different smiths’ schedules. “There is one appointment available this evening, but it really is quite late. Would tomorrow be okay?”

“I really would like it today,” he replied urgently. “You see, I’m a model and I think a fan took one of my spare keys.”

“A model?!” the receptionist exclaimed, sounding even more perky than she did before.

“Yes, perhaps you’ve seen my work on the subways,” he added, but faked a sniffle. “I’m so frightened, though. I don’t know how I can sleep tonight knowing that someone might intrude!”

“Of course! I’ll make an urgent appointment for this evening,” she said, and Kise could hear her scribbling out his information. “If you could give me your address, I’ll send one of our servicemen to replace your lock.”

Kise beamed triumphantly, even as he gave her his address and hung up. Before he did, however, he asked, “Just wondering, do you have an idea who the serviceman coming will be?” There was a hesitant silence on the other line, and he quickly clarified, “I was so impressed last time I called your store for service, and I wanted to see if it was the same one who helped me before.”

This time there was a more impressed hum, and the woman clapped her hands. “I imagine it’ll be our Yukio; he usually takes the evening shifts!”

Kise’s heart stopped for a moment, but he managed to take a deep breath and thank the receptionist one last time. When he hung up, he rubbed his hands together and eyed his closet. Now, to address on of the most important parts of his plan: what would he wear?

He had just finished buttoning up his shirt when there was a knock on his door. “Coming!” he called out, and took a glance around his bedroom. The top of his bed was covered in rejected clothes and accessories, while his floor was strewn with old laundry and toppled over bottles of beauty products. He winced at the sight, but shook it off. Oh well, he thought, it wasn’t like he was going to have company in here tonight. Although…

As the door knocked a second time, he hurriedly threw his clothes back in his closets by the armfuls and kicked his laundry under the bed.  _Just in case_ , he reassured himself as he gave his room one last inspection and ran out to answer the door.

As we strutted down the corridor, however, he began to panic.  _You don’t know if it’s him_ , his mind tried to convince him.  _What are you going to do if he’s not there? What if he’s intentionally avoiding you?_ Kise gulped when he stopped in front of the door.  _You don’t even know he’s gay. He might be straight, and you might be a creep._ His hand hesitated over the knob.  _You’re going to end up alone at this rate._

Kise swallowed, and opened the door. 

Yukio looked up at him, toolbox in all. “Hello.”

“Hi!” Kise beamed, and felt his body lean against the door in relief. “I’m so glad you came.”

Yukio nodded. “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you have a new lock before the evening’s over.” He turned to examine his front door, and hummed. “I had no idea being a model was this dangerous.”

Kise’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but he remembered his own lie before he could slip up. “Oh yeah, fans can get pretty wild. I never had someone snatch my keys, though!” He walked back into the foyer to allow Yukio room to work. “I really appreciate coming over this late.”

“It’s no problem.” By now, Yukio was already getting to work, kneeling on the ground with a screwdriver in hand. “What’s important is your safety.” He glanced up at Kise, and cleared his throat. “You can continue with your evening, don’t let my presence disrupt what you were doing.”

Kise waved his hand dismissively. “I didn’t have any important engagements,” he insisted pleasantly. “But I can get you some coffee, if you like?”

The locksmith’s eyes traveled down Kise’s body suspiciously, and raised an eyebrow; maybe the blonde shouldn’t have gone with the expensive silk shirt and tight pants. Yukio said nothing about it and nodded instead. “Coffee would be great. Black, with two spoons of sugar.”

Kise nodded, and shuffled back into the kitchen to obtain the drinks. He took a deep breath once he turned the corner and clutched his chest. He was actually doing this. Yukio was actually in his apartment. This was actually going pretty well.

He grabbed a few mugs from one of the upper shelves, but paused when he felt his phone buzz a few times in his pocket. He pulled it out with one hand while pouring the coffees with the other. Kuroko’s name flashed on the screen, and two text messages blinked up at him. He flicked them open with his thumb and read them both, seconds apart from each other.

_How’s your date going?_

_Don’t let it bother you if he rejects you._

A third message came in.

_Call me if you need to._

Kise smiled, and typed out a thank you with twice as many emotes as letters. He knew he wouldn’t get a response for that, so he pocketed his phone and took his drinks back out to the corridor. Yukio’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows by now and his doorknob saw strewn in three different pieces on the floor. He stepped over the bolts and pieces of metal, and set the mug of steaming coffee next to him.

Yukio hummed in thanks, and took the moment to stop working and reach over for the cup. “Did you play basketball?” he asked.

“Yeah—” Kise gave him a look, and tilted his head. “How did you know?”

“The photo,” he explained, and motioned to one of the many-framed pictures littered along the wall. This particular photograph was a group photo of his basketball team the year they made the semi-finals of the Winter Cup. He was only a freshman then, but his red face and bright smile proved he was just as determined a starting player as his upperclassmen.

He chuckled at the memory, and nodded. “Yeah, I played ‘til senior year.”

“Did you play in college?”

Kise shook his head. “I wish I did, but work came first back then.”

Yukio hummed in agreement with a little too much familiarity, and peaked Kise’s interest. “What about you? Did you play in high school and college?”

The locksmith took another sip of his coffee but shook his head. “Only until the beginning of my senior year.”

“Why?”

He looked up at him and smiled tiredly. “A very cliché leg injury. No use trying to play college level when I could barely walk for months.”

Kise sat next to him, and felt a wave of guilt wash over him for asking. “I’m sorry,” he said, head resting against the wall.

“Don’t worry about it; it was a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but sighed. “I miss it, though.” He craned his head over to smile at Yukio. “Hey, we should go see a game sometime. We could complain how terrible some of the players are and reminisce on how much better we were.”

Yukio snorted, but continued work on the door and nodded. “Deal.”

The rest of the night was quiet and pleasant. Kise sat with Yukio as he worked, and discussed everything from their time as basketball players to the trials and tribulations of having a handful of siblings (it was quite interesting to hear from Yukio how troublesome it was being the oldest brother; he thought he had enough trouble being the youngest).

It was almost ten by the time Kise was beginning to make dinner; in between the hilarious stories of siblings and old locker room shenanigans, he had somehow wrangled Yukio into staying for spaghetti and meatballs. It was cheesy and stereotypical, yes, but it was the quickest thing he knew how to make well. 

He had set the water to a boil and was just adding the stiff spaghetti to the mix when he heard Yukio step into the kitchen. “Finished with the door already?” he asked without turning around, and reached with his free hand to grab the salt. “You’re good! I’d still have the thing in about a million pieces.” He expected a tired retort or an amused reply.

What he wasn’t expecting was the other to ask, “Is this a date?”

Kise froze and jolted his hand, but somehow the spaghetti managed to fall into the boiling pot without making a mess on the stovetop. He turned around to gape at Yukio. “What?”

But Yukio turned away, presumably mistaking his surprise for disgust, and coughed. “Never mind,” he said quickly, and looked worryingly similar to a deer about to bolt.

“What makes you think that?” he asked, because he swore that he was being as discrete as he could. Maybe the whole stay-for-dinner thing was suspicious, but that was after they had a lengthy discussion about basketball. It would’ve come off as friendly in the best-case scenario.

Yukio looked uncomfortable, but he at least turned back to look at him. “The time of day, the way you were dressed, the ease of conversation, the,” he paused, and motioned to the stove. “The meal you’re making…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll just head out—“

“ _No!_ ” He leapt forward and grabbed the cuff of Yukio’s sleeve. He was not about to let the very person who’s captured his affections ruin this chance. Yukio paused, and that was all the give Kise needed to continue. “Alright. Your presumptions might have, um. Might be right.”

Yukio furrowed his eyebrows, and eyed Kise questionably. “So…this was meant to be a date?”

“More of a ‘get to know you’ event, but yeah. It kind of ended up a date.”

Yukio hummed quietly. “You didn’t need to have your lock changed.”

Kise shook his head. “No.”

“You just did that to get my attention.”

“Yes.”

“Even when we were more or less strangers when I first arrived.”

Kise gulped. His idea sounded more inane when it was put that way. “Yeah…”

“Huh…” For a minute Kise was scared Yukio was going to pull his arm away and leave. But instead the other looked up at him with a small smile and asked, “And you’re really a model?”

“Of course I am!” Kise replied indignantly. “You saw my photos!”

“Just checking.” He pulled away this time, but only to enter the kitchen and check the boiling pot of pasta. “I was wondering if models really were airheads after the last time we met. Looks like tonight confirms it.”

“You’re meaner than I recall,” he complained half-heartedly, but gave the locksmith another lookover. Interesting. “If I’m such an airhead,” he asked, walking over and playing with the collar of his shirt, “why would I notice that this is not your usual uniform?” Indeed, the shirt Yukio was wearing was much nicer than the uniform he had last time. It was a soft blue cotton button-down, and certainly didn’t look like anything one would wear to a service appointment. It almost looked like he was hoping for a similar outcome.

Yukio’s suddenly red face only confirmed this idea. “You’re my last appointment of the night,” he explained while stirring the softening strands of spaghetti. “I thought it’d be easier to change out of my work clothes and go straight home afterwards.”

Kise’s smile was stupidly wide, and he leaned closer to murmur in his ear, “It had nothing to do with the fact that I was your last job of the night?” He coughed when he was elbowed away by the smaller male, and took a step to the side as a peace offering.

Yukio continued stirring the pasta while Kise prepared the sauce, and eventually admitted, “I was curious to see where you lived. It wouldn’t have been polite to come in dirty clothes.”

Kise kept himself from tap dancing or something equally embarrassing, and hummed calmly. “You’re a lot more considerate than you let on to be, Yukiocchi,” he teased, reveling in the way the dark-haired male’s eyes bulged and he turned to protest the given nickname. He ignored his attempts to forbid the nickname to continue chopping some herbs. “There’s a lot you still haven’t seen, though. The den, the guest-room, the bedroom…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes flickered to Yukio.

Yukio kept his eyes glued to the boiling water and Kise was concerned he overstepped his boundaries, but Yukio shrugged one shoulder. “A good host would give me a tour,” he grumbled, but glanced up at Kise and held his gaze.

Oh.  _Oh._

He put the knife down before he accidentally sliced a finger off, and scooted a little closer to Yukio. There was barely any space between them when he leaned down to Yukio’s ear, no elbow disrupting him this time as he sing-sang, “I can manage that.”


End file.
